A friend, some tea and a few grams of lithium
by Theswedishtrex
Summary: John finds out that Sherlock is bipolar and forces him to get help. A lot of mention of depression, suicidal thoughts and self harm.
1. This explains a lot

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm, thoughts about suicide**

* * *

><p>There was a very good reason to everything which was going on in Sherlock Holmes' life. There always was. Why he always wore long sleeves, why he sometimes didn't talk for days, why he sometimes didn't sleep, didn't eat and couldn't sit still. There was a very easy explanation for all of this. The detective was diagnosed bipolar.<p>

It wasn't something people knew about. No one knew, in fact. Except Mycroft, and Sherlock had made it quite clear that no one was to know about his disorder. When he was diagnosed, Sherlock had been on medication and had seen a therapist. But, it wasn't his thing. The last 20 years, he had been completely on his own. And he was fine. Sort of, at least. It was under control.

Except for the occasional thoughts about suicide and the self harm, that was. The reason to why Sherlock always wore long sleeves, so that nobody could see the scars on his arms. Some were more than 20 years old and barely visible while some were a few days old.

* * *

><p>It was early evening in 221B and Sherlock stood by the kettle, watching it boil. John was away, he had gone to visit his family for the weekend, and wouldn't be back until Monday. Soft music was playing in his ears from the headphones he was wearing. This was the first time since John left that he had gotten out of his room. He was only dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. It was something he allowed himself to do when John was out, when his scars wouldn't be seen.<p>

Whistling along with the violin piece, Sherlock prepared his cup of tea with the same insane attention to detail as everything else. Tea bag, water to a certain level, two teaspoons of sugar and stir five times counter-clockwise. After placing the spoon in the sink along with the growing pile of dishes, he moved into the living room and sank down onto the couch.

Lately, Sherlock hadn't been feeling completely fine. After several weeks of manic behaviour, he had crashed about a month ago and sank into the deepest depression of years. He hadn't been able to do anything it all. The only thing he had been up to was laying either in his bed or on the couch, staring into the ceiling, with John yelling at him to 'get off his skinny arse and maybe help around the flat'. Of course, Sherlock hadn't answered.

In order to keep it in check, he had brought the knife to his arm and now a few red scars had joined the already existing. They stood out against Sherlock's pale skin and the white t-shirt. Now, he was finally a bit better. He could think again. His mind wasn't just a gaping, black hole which absorbed any thought of happiness or hope. It was a bit better.

After taking a deep sip of the tea, Sherlock laid back in the couch and grabbed a magazine which happened to be there right next to him. It was apparently about gossip, something Sherlock couldn't care less about, but it was something to do.

Due to the music, Sherlock couldn't hear when John arrived. The first indication of that he wasn't alone in the flat was when John touched his naked foot, causing Sherlock to flinch.

"I thought you wouldn't be home until Monday!" The detective said as he ripped off his headphones. John looked tired, his hair stood on end. Early train, then. Pasta for lunch. Fight with Father.

"Nice to see you too." John said with a soft smile. "And, it is Monday." John's eyes scanned over Sherlock, who quickly crossed his arms over his chest when he remembered they were bare. Had John seen the red marks?

"Oh." Sherlock just said and tried to count in his head. It really was Monday. Then it was almost a week since he last ate something. That could explain how exhausted he felt.

"You okay?" Sherlock's thoughts were cut short by John's soft, worried voice.

"Never been better." He quickly lied.

"What happened to your arms?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

There was no answer from Sherlock this time. He kept his arms firmly crossed over his chest as he stared at something above John's shoulder. What on earth was going to happen now? What if John persisted? What if he contacted Mycroft? Sherlock could feel the anxiety snake around his chest.

"Sherlock, talk to me. I see that they are from self harm." Sherlock heard that John sat down in his arm chair and kicked off his shoes. The detective still didn't turn his head to look at his best friend and flatmate. He had to bit down on his tongue to not snap at John about the fight he had with his father.

"Look, I'm going to make a cup of tea. I'm not dropping this. We have to talk about it." John's voice was still very soft, he hadn't even commented about the mess of the flat. 'Clean up while I'm gone, won't you?' Those had been his last words before he set off to meet his family. He really must be worried.

* * *

><p>They sat opposite each other in their arm chairs. Sherlock was now wearing a sweater over his t-shirt, hiding his arms from John's calm, blue eyes. It seemed like none of them wanted to start. Sherlock's heart was beating fast in his chest. Was he actually nervous about this? Yes, he supposed that was what he was feeling. He was nervous.<p>

"How long have you been hurting yourself?" John's voice was, as it had been before, very, very soft. That was one thing which always surprised Sherlock. "And, no lying. Please be honest with me. Just now. Please."

"Since I was about 13. On and off." It wasn't a lie, it was completely true. It was when he entered his teenage years that he started displaying symptoms of bipolar disorder. But, he wasn't diagnosed until he was 16, after a suicide attempt.

"Why?" It was first now that Sherlock met John's eyes since he had commented about his arms. The blue eyes were worried and filled with something Sherlock couldn't really put his finger on. The same with his voice.

"To keep the anxiety at bay. And the... Other thoughts."

"Other thoughts?"

There was a long pause when Sherlock thought about how to word his next statement. John had said no lying. After a while, the detective cleared his throat.

"Every now and again I might have some thoughts about hurting myself in a more... Final way than just cutting."

Sherlock could see John's eyes widen and his right hand twitched around the cup of tea. With a low sigh, Sherlock took a deep sip of his tea which had since long gone cold. He just wished that John would stop there, that he wouldn't ask more questions. Sherlock was in no form to make up some silly lies or to just ignore his friend.

"You mean you have thoughts about killing yourself."

"Correct."

"Why haven't you talked to me about it?"

"Not important."

There was a loud bang as John placed his tea on the table next to his chair with more force than necessary, causing the tea to spill onto the smooth surface. Now there was anger in John's eyes.

"Can you just take something concerning yourself seriously?" John's eyes flashed. "Suicidal thoughts are nothing to laugh about! And, what happens when they turn from thoughts into planning and then into an action? What if I come home to find you dead?"

"I said thoughts, John. Not intentions. Do try and keep up."

There was another long pause between them as John stood up and grabbed a piece of napkin to wipe up the spilt tea.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you." He finally said as he sat down again.

"It's quite alright."

John shook his head vigorously.

"Not, it isn't. You're finally opening up to me and I yelled at you. Not very professorial."

"Maybe not."

They drank their tea in silence, John with his now mostly empty cup and Sherlock with his cold tea, doing his best to not think. Which was impossible. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think about his disorder, to think that maybe he wasn't handling it as well as he thought he did.

"You said it has been going on since you were 13. Have you ever gotten help for it?" Sherlock had almost forgotten that John was there and flinched when John spoke with him.

"Yes." He admitted. "Once when I was 16, until I was 18. My parents forced me."

"And, this didn't help you?"

"No."

"So, you were diagnosed with depression, I suppose? Just, judging by the way you've been acting these last few days, I think that's what you have."

Once again, Sherlock took his time to decide how to word things.

"Sort of." He finally decided on. It wasn't a lie, it was an evasion.

The thoughts began spinning in John's head, Sherlock could see it. John was a doctor after all, and even though he wasn't a psychiatrist, Sherlock was sure that it wasn't a difficult diagnosis to make. All the signs were there.

"Are you bipolar?" John's voice was just as soft as before.

"Exactly. Great deduction, Doctor Watson."

"Are you on any medication? Do you see anyone about it?"

Sherlock only huffed as an answer.

"I'm taking that as a no. You know, you really should do that. In fact, I know someone who's an expert no bipolar disorder. I can get you a time next week."

"I'm fine."

"I said no lies."

A deep groan escaped the detective as he sank deeper into his chair, pulling his legs up under him.

"Do I have a choice?"

There was a small pause and Sherlock looked up, meeting John's eyes. There was a small smile on his lips, he knew he had won.

"Of course not."


	2. I'm here for you Always

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it. **

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm, thoughts about suicide and depression**

* * *

><p>A ray of sun searched its way into Sherlock's room through the closed blinds. It fell over the bed and the detective who was in a state somewhere between being awake and asleep. He pulled the covers over his face, trying to block out the fact that there was a world outside of his room and the bed.<p>

It was the day after he and John had talked about his little disorder. And, much to Sherlock's surprise, John hadn't run away, screaming. His best friend was indeed still there, Sherlock had heard him stomping around the flat for what seemed like ages. First there was the shower, then it was the cleaning. After that he had opened the door and said something Sherlock couldn't remember if it so was to save his life.

"Sherlock, I asked you to get up and get dressed nearly two hours ago. We're leaving in thirty minutes." John's voice could be heard from the open door.

A deep groan emerged from under the duvet. Last night, it had been so easy to agree to see this friend of John's, to get re-evaluated. Last night, he had been high of the endorphins released after bring harm to himself. It brought a legal and rather pleasant high, causing everything to seem bright for just a moment. Now, he was back into the darkness of hopelessness and self hate.

"I'm a grown man, you can't force me to do anything." Sherlock finally muttered.

Steps could be heard as John walked across the floor and they stopped right next to Sherlock's bed. His flatmate's steps sounded tired, dragging. A bad night's sleep, then. Maybe nightmares? No, his voice would be shaking more if that was the case. Just bad sleep.

"Please? You promised. Just, at least go there once. Just meet him, talk to him and if he says you're fine, I'll leave it."

That was a lie, John wouldn't leave it.

"I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me that I'm crazy, I already know that, thank you very much." Sherlock grumbled.

The mattress sagged as John sat down next to him on the bed and a strong hand was placed on his shoulder.

"You're not crazy, you're ill. There's a difference." John's voice was just as soft as it had been the night before.

"I don't want to get up..."

The hand took a sturdier grip and it soothed Sherlock a bit. John was always there, he thought as to comfort himself. Always. Never once had his blogger let him down.

"Please?" John's voice was almost begging now. "If not for your own sake, then for me. Please?"

* * *

><p>The reception at the psychiatrist wasn't as full at it could be, but there were several people there. Sherlock was drumming his fingers against the arm rest of the sofa he had sunken down in when John checked him in.<p>

John had decided to come with him, even despite Sherlock's complaints.

_"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I just can't trust you to actually go there."_ He had said as he sat on the side of the bed while Sherlock got dressed. _"I know how much you hate it and I can't just trust you to go there on your own. I'll be nice, I promise."_

As he waited for John to return, Sherlock allowed his eyes to scan over the room, and he analysed the rest of the patients. Not the most fun thing in the world, they were all like open books, but it was something and it kept him from thinking about other things.

Army pilot, three years since employment, PTSD, cheating wife and recently deceased father. Mother of four, post-partum depression, homicidal thoughts, self harm issue. Teenager, anorexia...

"Sherlock, stop it." John's voice cut his deductions short when eh returned. "I can see what you're doing and stop it. It's not kind."

"I've explained this to you multiple times. I cannot turn it on and off like some soft of machine. Besides, I'm bored. Your 'friend' is three minutes late."

Sherlock had a perfect plan to snake his way through this interview. He knew what answers they wanted, he knew what kind of body language they wanted. This would be a walk in the park. After this, John would be seen as the crazy friend who worried about nothing. It was just too brilliant.

But, once again, John's voice was there to interrupt.

"I know what you're thinking, and don't." He begged. "Let them help you."

Sherlock huffed and drummed his fingers faster against the armrest.

"I don't need help."

"Of course you don't. Normal people cut themselves everyday."

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to sputter out some abuse in return, a deep voice called out "Sherlock Holmes."

Before Sherlock could stop himself, he looked over at John for support. He met John's blue, kind eyes and got a small smile from his friend.

"I'll be here when you get out." He said and gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze.

With a nod and a small smile, Sherlock stood up to follow the man who had called his name.

* * *

><p>It had been hell in there. Sherlock thought that he could distance himself, that he could lie and snake his way through the answers, that they would just look at John and see someone who was worrying for nothing. He had been wrong. Catastrophically wrong.<p>

Now, his hands were shaking terribly, and he couldn't think. They had prodded in his life, in his brain. Too weakened by the depression to put up a defence, he had been like an open book to them. He hated it. Maybe John actually was right for once. Maybe he did actually need help.

As soon as he was released from the tiny room, Sherlock crumpled the recipe for medicine into his pocket and sped out the door, not intending to wait for John to catch up.

Unbeknownst to him, John was one step ahead and had been prepared for this reaction. It didn't take long before he caught up with the detective.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock felt a warm, calloused and sweaty hand wrap around his wrist. The sweat, the slight tremor in his voice... John was nervous about something. Worried. With a frown, Sherlock stopped, but continued looking forward.

"You okay?"

"Never been better." To his embarrassment, Sherlock heard his voice shake.

"You don't have to be okay, you know."

"I'm aware."

"If you need me, I'm here for you. Always, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't answer, and kept his gaze forward.

"Can I see the recipe?"

With slightly shaking hands, Sherlock took out the crumpled piece of paper and handed it to John, still without looking at him. It was for Lamictal and Lithium, quite a common combination when it came to treating bipolar disorder. After several moments of silence, Sherlock dared to look at John. His friend was reading everything with a frown until he noticed that Sherlock was looking.

"We'll just stop by the pharmacy on our way home, then."

John carefully folded the paper and put it in his pocket before giving Sherlock's hand a light squeeze.

"Chinese?" The army doctor asked.

"Starving." The detective smiled.


	3. Rules and pills

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm, thoughts about suicide and depression**

* * *

><p>"We have to set up some rules." John's voice came drifting from the kitchen.<p>

Sherlock looked up from where he was laying in the couch, his hands on his stomach. On the table, there were plastic containers which had been filled with food less than 30 minutes ago.

"Rules?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Rules. About the flat."

It pained him, but Sherlock had to admit that he didn't really understand what John was on about. What rules? Why did they have to have rules?

"Since you've explained that you have thoughts about suicide, I'm going to make some changes around the flat."

Ah, so that was what this was about.

John emerged from the kitchen and sat down on the couch table, moving the empty containers out of the way.

"Well, let's hear it." The detective muttered.

"I'm going to hide all the knifes, the pills, the chemicals, anything which you can use to hurt yourself with. When you shave, I'm going to watch you, when you need to cut something, I'm taking the skull as a hostage. No experiments until I've deemed that you're well enough."

Sherlock sat up in the couch and looked at John as if he had just said some very rude things about his mother.

"You can't be serious."

"It's for your own good."

"You're doing it because you like to see me suffer."

"Sherlock, stop it."

Silence.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

John was right, Sherlock didn't hate him. How on earth could he hate John? He was an annoying idiot from time to time, but Sherlock could never hate him.

* * *

><p>For normal people-whatever normal now was- getting dressed shouldn't be an issue. Neither should get out of bed or take a shower or eat some breakfast. But, at the moment, it really was for Sherlock. Everything between the moment he woke up and when he finally could go back to bed was just dull, tiresome and hateful.<p>

Sherlock had been on the medication for three days now. If it was doing anything at all, it was making him feel even worse. Chills went through his body, headaches plagued him and there was a constant dryness in his mouth. It wasn't pleasant.

The fourth day arrived with John opening the blinds, allowing the grey light from the street outside to flood into the detective's room. Sherlock wasn't having any of it, he just pulled his covers over his head.

"Come on, Sherlock. Time to get up and take your meds. I've let you sleep an hour longer than usually just because I'm feeling nice. But you have to get up now."

"No."

"I'm not arguing about this."

"Then leave."

There was a deep sigh from John and the heavy padding of feet until the mattress sagged down when John sat next to Sherlock and gently rubbed over his arm.

"Side effects?" The doctor was back in John's voice. Something changed when he turned into Doctor Watson, instead of John. Sherlock didn't like it. It made him sound... Harder, less warm, less friendly.

"Chills, headaches, dry mouth, joint pain... I just feel like I have the flu. It's not really helping with anything."

Sherlock could feel the hand continuing to rub his arm.

"I'm sorry to hear that." The real John was back, Sherlock noticed to his relief.

"I'm not going to take them anymore." The detective grumbled.

The hand stopped. No! Sherlock wanted to shout. No, please continue. Please, it calmed him down so much. It gave him something to cling on to in all this. Now, his arm felt empty and exposed.

"You know I can't let you stop taking your meds, Sherlock."

The words burrowed into Sherlock's brain and he curled up a bit more, hugging himself. The hand returned.

"Sherlock?"

"I know."

John pealed back the covers and Sherlock groaned when the light hit his face. The doctor was wearing a soft smile and he squeezed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Just because I'm feeling nice today, you can have breakfast in bed and sleep for a while longer. Just because it's Saturday."

Was it Saturday? Sherlock had no idea.

* * *

><p>Four pills in the morning, four pills in the evening. Eight pills per day in total. Four blue Lithium and four white Lamictal. That was Sherlock's daily dosage of medications. Now, the small pills stared up at him, almost tauntingly.<p>

Except for the pills, John had made tea, just as Sherlock liked it, toast with jam and an apple. 'An apple a day keeps the doctor away' Sherlock thought to himself. It certainly wouldn't keep his doctor away, that was for sure. Because at this very moment, his doctor moved to sit next to him in the bed, clutching his own cup and a newspaper.

Sherlock tilted his head and looked at the pills once more. He could hide them under his tongue, and then excuse himself to use the loo, spit them out and John would be none the wiser.

"Just take the damn pills, Sherlock."

"I was going to!"

"No, you were planning on how to fool me into thinking that you'd taken them. Can I trust you on this or do I have to look in your mouth after each time just to make sure that you've actually taken them?"

While hurling abuse at doctors, the mental healthcare system, the Queen and the idiots who came up with the most stupid idea of treating mental illness, Sherlock put the pills on his tongue and swallowed them with a sip of the water.

"Open up." John demanded with a gaze which told Sherlock that he would pry his jaws open if he had to.

As soon as the doctor had made sure that Sherlock had indeed swallowed his medicine, John relaxed in the bed again, opening his paper. There was a twitch in Sherlock's hands, aching to reach out for the paper, to find something in there to occupy himself on.

Wait... Was he actually interested in looking for a case? It was weeks since he had even considered it. Well, this was an unexpected turn of events.

"There's not a case in there by any means?" Sherlock asked with a tone as light as possible.

"So, you're feeling better today, then?" There was a smile in John's voice.

"I didn't say that."

There was no reply from John this time and Sherlock picked his toast and took a big bite out of it.


	4. The talk

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm, thoughts about suicide, depression, mentions of drug abuse and a description of a suicide attempt**

**This chapter is mostly going to be conversation**

* * *

><p>The rain continued to hammer against the windows as Sherlock chewed on his piece of toast. The twitch in his hand, it was interesting... It wasn't yet possible that it was the medication. It would take several days for the side effects to disappear and for his body to acclimatise to the new chemicals he had introduced to it. It wasn't until after that he would begin to feel his mood stabilise.<p>

So, what had it been? A wish for a distraction, a wish to be pulled out of the depression? Interesting... It was a sign of getting better. Maybe he was really pulling out of the depression. Normally it would take weeks, maybe even months. Sometimes, he managed to control it. He had figured it out.

Or, at least somewhat. Cutting did help, in a short while. Cases helped the mania. It kept him occupied, it kept the thoughts from spinning too wildly out of control.

Some attempts to keep it all at bay had been less successful.

Of course, the cocaine had been an 'alternative treatment'. It had worked fine, until someone ratted on him and Mycroft came raiding in. He had heard that marijuana gave some sort of treatment. Maybe he should give that a shot. Or, maybe he would just shoot himself. That would probably be easier.

Maybe he wasn't really getting better after all.

"This all makes a lot of sense, you know." John's voice came from far away. Sherlock didn't realise how far he had sunken into his own thoughts.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked as he managed to pull out of the deep, dark thoughts. It was the first time in ages that he allowed himself to think about the disorder.

"You, I mean. Everything just... Makes sense now."

"Oh."

John made an agreeing noise and folded the newspaper, throwing it to the side.

"The drugs, the not talking, the sad music..."

"I understand what you meant, John. Thank you. Please do not go on."

But, John apparently wasn't going to stop. The good doctor sounded like he wanted to talk. Urgh.

"How did you get diagnosed?"

Sherlock gripped his tea cup harder, his knuckles whitened. With a deep breath and his eyes closed, he started telling. There was no point in hiding anything any more.

"I was 16, it was during a particularly vicious depression. Locked myself in the bathroom, took all the pills I could find. Went into a coma for... Three days, I think it was. I was then locked up in a ward for several days. Diagnosed within a week."

There was a rustling in the bed beside Sherlock and he felt a strong hand wrap around his wrist.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Sherlock."

With a sigh, Sherlock leaned his head back. His eyes were still closed. There was no answer from him.

"Has there been any other times?"

"Of course there has. All in all, about 4."

"If you don't want to talk about it, it's fine."

John, always so caring, always so... Considerate. It made Sherlock smile a bit.

"Well, you're going to keep wondering and making theories. Just as you have been doing about my sexuality. Might as well clear it up."

"About that, do you have a sexuality?"

A low chuckle escaped from Sherlock's lips.

"As you are probably aware, John, mania has a symptom of hyper sexuality. It essential means that-"

"That you'll shag anything, yes."

"Well, men. Exclusively."

"Oh."

"Problem?"

"Not at all, I told you that it's all fine."

"Never been in love, though."

"Good to know."

The silence was filling the room. It seemed that the rain had stopped. Sherlock brought the cup to his lips and sipped it gently.

"When did you start with drugs?" Once again, John's voice cut the silence, before Sherlock could sink into his thoughts again.

"18. Continued until I was about 22. I've relapsed about three times. This is the longest I've ever stayed clean."

"Cheers to that."

"Lived on the streets during a lot of it as well."

"How did you get cleaned up?"

"Mycroft. Need I say more?"

"No, not really."

That when the big question came.

"How are you, Sherlock? Really. I don't want any vague details, I want to know exactly how you're feeling."

A deep sigh escaped the detective. He wasn't going to lie. If John wanted the truth, he would get the truth.

"I am depressed. Just a few minutes ago I considered taking your gun and putting a bullet through my head, just to get it all over with. I've been cutting myself a few times these last days and I am now wanting to do it again. The physical pain seems to numb the emotional one. I'm experiencing anxiety on a daily basis, though nothing to worry about. It's all over after a few minutes. I am terrified about what this medication is doing to me. I'm feeling like I'm coming down with the flu. I also know that there's a chance that this specific set-up of medication might not work. It worked 20 years ago, it might not work this time. And, I don't like my psychiatrist."

"That was... Unexpected. I thought you'd give me a 'good' or a 'not good'." John's voice as low. "And you know that I'm never going to let you kill yourself. I'm going to handcuff you to this bed if that's what it takes."

"So, you like that sort of thing, Doctor Watson? Is that what you and your girlfriends do when you moan throughout the night?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I've never tried bondage. Might be interesting."

"Too much information."

"Penetration is quite pleasurable."

"Thank you, Sherlock!"

A laugh escaped Sherlock.

"I didn't even know that you were into anything like this and now we're discussing sex. It's quite interesting to live with you. You can never really be sure what happens."

"Well, you also just found out that I'm bipolar. Maybe it's the week of finding out everything about Sherlock Holmes."

"I want to know everything about you."

"My favourite colour is purple and favourite dish is mushroom risotto."

"Interesting."

"Not really."

"Well, mine is blue and a steak with chips."

"I know."

"You must be getting better."

Sherlock felt his hand being grabbed by John's. The warm hand gave his a squeeze.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For talking. For being honest."

"It's possible that I just lied about all of that to get you off my back."

"I'm going to assume that you were completely honest with me."

* * *

><p>The darkness had fallen in the flat and the dinner had been cleaned away. The day had been slow, Sherlock had been sleeping a lot and reading a bit on the website. Surprisingly, John had been very encouraging about it.<p>

"John?" Sherlock said from where he was laying on the couch.

"Yes?"

"I didn't lie."

"I know."


	5. Mania Or John lose it

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: None, actually**

**I have no idea if this chapter is any good. Mania is hard to write, as it turns out...**

* * *

><p>The green, luminous digits on the microwave informed Sherlock that it was currently 5.34 am. That would explain why John wasn't up yet and why the flat was so dark. The last few days, Sherlock had slept more than 10 hours per day, and that he was beginning to feel a bit fed up with it made complete sense. It wasn't anything to be worried about<p>

While whistling under his breath, Sherlock opened the fridge to find something to munch on. Today was going to be a good day, he could feel it. He just felt so _ alive_. Everything seemed so vivid, the colours were beautiful. Everything was just brilliant. With a grin on his face, he turned on the kettle. He could sing, he was so happy.

* * *

><p>"You're up early." John said when he came down from the stairs.<p>

The time was barely 7, but Sherlock had already showered, gotten dressed and found a case.

"Yes, of course. Who can sleep? There's so much to do!" Sherlock said as he, in lack of a better word, skipped around the flat.

There was a groan from the doctor which made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks. His eyes scanned over John. On his friend's face was a look of complete and utter exhaustion. Sherlock couldn't understand. He was so much better, why was John looking like that?

"What's the matter with you? I'm feeling better. I'm _much_ better. You've been nagging at me to get out of bed for _days_."

A deep sigh came from John as he moved into the kitchen. Like a restless shadow, Sherlock followed.

"You're not better, Sherlock. You're manic."

"I am most certainly not!"

"Just... Don't do anything stupid."

"I never do anything stupid." There was a sharp tone in Sherlock's voice. He was looking for a fight, an argument.

"It's too early for arguments. Have you taken your medication?"

"No, because you have some sort of power complex and feel the need to control everything I ever do, so you've taken them off me. Or maybe you were too busy playing hero to remember that small detail."

There was a twitch in John's face and a surge of satisfaction washed over Sherlock. His words had hit their target.

"Just take the bloody pills, Sherlock." John said before turning to the kettle.

* * *

><p>"<em>SHERLOCK<em>!" John bellowed. In front of them sat a young girl, her eyes were filled to the brim with tears and her lip was quivering.

"What?" The detective said, half mad that he had been interrupted in his deduction, half surprised about the harshness in John's voice. "I was just explaining that if you do sleep with your mother's boyfriend, isn't it quite obvious that she would indeed grow tired of you-"

"Sherlock!" There it was again. Why was John mad? She had come to them for help, she would have to deal with the consequences.

"Well, I'm so fucking sorry about the fact that I offer to help the public and they can't handle the truth." Sherlock stood up and swirled around, his robe dramatically waving behind him.

"That's _it_!" John slammed his fist into the table, causing both Sherlock and the girl to flinch.

"You, get out." The doctor growled at the girl.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Problem?"

John looked like he might explode, Sherlock noticed. What was he so worked up about?

"Yes, of course there's a fucking problem! You are in denial about your disorder, the medication have made you extremely unstable and I am _exhausted_ from running after you today, just to make sure that you don't walk right into traffic and get hurt! It's like a babysitting a gigantic, stupid, stubborn arse!"

"Maybe you should just let me walk into traffic if I'm so much of a chore?!"

"I don't want to give you the satisfaction!"

Sherlock stiffened like a board and it felt like he had been dipped in ice water. He had trusted John with this sacred information about him, the information that no one else had access to, and his only friend said something like that.

"Well, John, it's not my fault that you have daddy problems and that Harry always took your parents attention. You're used to being in the shadow of people, does it bother you now that you actually have to do something? You are a rather pathetic excuse of a doctor-"

Sherlock was cut short by the fact that John's fist hit his face.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, I went too far." John's voice was soft as he gently pressed a cotton tab against Sherlock's swelling cheek.<p>

"So did I. I'm sorry."

John's bottom lip was scuffed and there was a long scratch over his neck, but he was smiling softly.

"I've just been so worried about you lately."

"Yes, I can feel that."

"You're in denial about your condition."

"No. I-"

"I'm serious, Sherlock! This isn't something to joke about. Besides, your cycling is rapid. It's a bit not good. I'm going to call your doctor in the morning."

"Sure, fine. Do whatever you want."

John pressed the cotton tab a bit extra hard against Sherlock's face, causing him to flinch.

"You are going to be a good little detective and you're going to do exactly what I tell you to, do you understand?" John's voice was hard, commanding. No one would say no to that.

"Alright, fine."

"Now take your fucking pills and go to sleep. I'm still cross with you."

"You're cursing a lot."

"I'm angry."

"I'm sorry."

Silence.

"I'm sorry too. Now go to bed."


	6. Therapy

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: None, actually. Once again. **

* * *

><p>Doctor Eric Rosenberg was a man in his mid forties. His hair was grizzled and so was his beard. Now he was clutching a notepad and was sat opposite Sherlock, who couldn't sit still. The detective's fingers were drumming against the armrest and his legs were bouncing.<p>

"I'm only here because John tells me I have to be here." Sherlock informed

"Who's John?" Dr Rosenberg's voice was soft, and his head was tilted.

"My flatmate." Sherlock responded with a sharp tone.

"Just your flatmate?"

"We're not a couple."

"I didn't say you were."

"You were implying."

A low sigh escaped the doctor. Sherlock's eyes scanned over him. Divorced, three children, several lovers, most of them were half his age. A history of alcoholism and had a tabby cat.

"Well, John seems to think that you could use therapy."

It was two weeks since Sherlock met the psychiatrist, Doctor Wolf, and after the little incident with the mania, Sherlock had returned to see the psychiatrist, who had now practically forced him to go and see a therapist. Why this was a good idea, Sherlock didn't know.

"I don't _need _therapy. I am fine. Though I know that you've been divorced for less than two years and that you've had nearly 20 different sex partners and right now you're sleeping with someone who's the same age as your daughter. Your wife probably divorced you because of your alcoholism."

The doctor stiffened in his chair and Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit. He had hit all the right spots.

"This isn't about me." Dr Rosenberg said with a hard voice.

"Talking about you is a lot more fun than talking about me."

'Sherlock seems unwilling to talk about himself. John, flatmate, maybe more?' The older man wrote on his notepad.

"We are not a couple!" Sherlock said and pulled a hand through his hair, glaring at the doctor.

"I didn't say you were. I'm only assuming that you have to be a bit more than just flatmates since John is currently waiting for you in the waiting room and because you're only here because he told you."

When Sherlock didn't answer, the therapist wrote something on the paper again before smiling at the detective.

"So, Doctor Wolf prescribed you some medication about two weeks ago."

"Yes."

"How's that working for you?"

"Horrible."

"How come?"

"They make me slow."

"All-right. When was the last time you hurt yourself?"

"None of your business."

An agitated sigh escaped from Dr Rosenberg before he gathered his face into a smile again.

"How can I help you if you won't talk to me?"

"I don't need help."

"I think you do."

Sherlock groaned and tilted his head back, staring into the ceiling. This was stupid, it really was. He was sure that therapy wouldn't do anything for him. There was nothing he was interested in talking about, and he was especially not interested in talking about himself.

"Sherlock, you're bipolar. You're having thoughts about suicide and you have a self harm problem. And, you're apparently rather bad at taking care of yourself. Therapy has proven useful to several people in your situation."

"I'm not people. People are idiots."

"Is John an idiot?"

"John isn't people."

"What is he, then?"

"My only friend. The only one who stands me."

More scribbling from the therapist and a groan from Sherlock when he realised that he had done something they might refer to as 'opening up'.

"Do you think that it's because of your disorder that you a problem making friends?" Dr Rosenberg asked gently.

"I think it's because I'm obnoxious arsehole."

'Bad self-esteem' was written on his paper.

"I DON'T HAVE BAD SELF-ESTEEM!" Sherlock bellowed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yelling won't help, Sherlock. Why don't we bring John in? I'd like to talk to him for a bit. You'll be in here as well, of course."

* * *

><p>John sat in a chair next to Sherlock and smiled politely at the other doctor in the room. The blond's wounds were healing and Sherlock's black eye was barely visible any more.<p>

"Sherlock told me that you two are flatmates."

"And friends." John nodded.

"We're not a couple." Sherlock grumbled.

"No, I heard you the first time." Dr Rosenberg said with a strained voice.

The tall detective was staring into the wall just over Rosenberg's head and felt John's eyes burrow into the side of his face. He could almost hear him. '_Behave, Sherlock._'

"I'm worried about him." John explained. "And I think that he can actually be helped by some therapy, even if he doesn't think so himself."

"It's _stupid_, John. You just sit and talk about things that do not matter. The past is in the past, no use in rolling around in it."

"Yes, but you can actually learn from what has happened in the past. You can learn about your disorder."

"Urgh, for god's sake, John."

"We've been over this. You promised three therapy sessions!"

"Only because you wouldn't let me go on cases otherwise!"

"You need to take it easy, Sherlock. You're a complete mess."

"You are such an old woman! You're worse than my mother."

"Maybe if you weren't such a child, I wouldn't have to be your mother!"

It was now that the two men remembered that they weren't alone in the room. John turned to the therapist as Sherlock tilted his head back, staring into the ceiling once more.

"I'm sorry about that." John said. Sherlock could hear the embarrassment in his voice.

'Flatmates? ?' was written in the notepad.


	7. The routine

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: SELF HARM, really descriptive. **

* * *

><p>It wasn't just bringing the knife to his wrists which made Sherlock feel calmer. It was the whole routine. It was taking out the knife, locking the door to the bathroom, or the kitchen or wherever he was and setting out the paper towel to minimize the spill. A normal towel wouldn't work, since John would notice the blood stains when it went into the wash. He wasn't a complete idiot, after all.<p>

So, paper towel it was. Then it was the band aids. After the knife had been disinfected (of course he disinfected it, he didn't want to get ill), he made the cut. The incision was just a small detail. After letting the blood run down his arm and onto the paper towel, he wiped it off, cleaned the wound and patched it up.

All in all, the routine took a few minutes. Quite possible to complete while John was merely in the bathroom, or making tea. The doctor never suspected a thing.

But, since John set up all those idiotic rules, there was no easy way of getting hold of a knife. He couldn't just go out and buy a new one, that would be very suspicious. So, he would have to find John's secret stash.

* * *

><p>"Right, I'm going out to get some food. I'll be back in about an hour. Don't do anything stupid." John said as he pulled on his coat.<p>

"Good, fine." Sherlock said as he ran through the possibilities in his mind. John bedroom, most certainly. That would be a good place to start.

"Sherlock, you okay? Do I need to tell Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on you?"

"I'm fine."

"Promise?"

"Yes, John!"

"Alright, alright."

For some reason, John lingered in the doorway.

"Call me if you need anything, alright?" He finally said.

There was only a groan as a response from the detective.

* * *

><p>Right, John's bedroom. That would be a great place to start. Quietly, Sherlock climbed the stairs and into John's bedroom. Sherlock was rarely in there, and it only told him things about John which he already knew. Nothing too interesting.<p>

The wardrobe was filled with jumpers, jeans and t-shirts. The doctor only seemed to own two suits. But, unfortunately, no knifes. But John wouldn't be so obvious that he would try to hide them in the most obvious place. Then again, it would be quite funny if the doctor did indeed hide something in the closet.

Drawers, then. Socks, and there were some Star Trek pants. That was really interesting. He would bring that up when he wanted something out of John. Or else they would end up on the blog. But, once again, no knifes.

There were no knifes under the bed, on top of the wardrobe or anywhere else in the room as far as Sherlock could see. He even looked under the mattress.

With an agitated sigh, he got off the floor and was about to storm out when he nearly tripped over a loose floorboard.

"Hello..." He muttered as he got onto his knees and removed the loose board, revealing the cigarettes and the small box which contained all the knifes.

"Found you..."

There was a wide grin on his face as he took a few cigarettes from the package, the lighter and a small, sharp knife.

* * *

><p>It was all set up. Sherlock's shirt was rolled up to his elbow, his pale and scarred skin showing. The knife was in his right hand. After taking a deep breath, he brought the blade to his skin.<p>

Three small lacerations, that was all he needed. The blood ran down his skin and onto the paper towel. It was quite beautiful, the tiny red droplets left a trace, a pattern. He was mesmerized. The chemicals which were released in his body set him into a trance.

But the search for the knife had taken longer than he had anticipated. There were suddenly steps in the stairs and Sherlock flinched intensely. John was home.

Sherlock scrambled to wipe up the blood, throw the knife into the sink and to just clean up. He didn't really have time to finish all of it.

"I'm ba-"

John stopped in his tracks as he entered the kitchen and saw Sherlock at the table.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" The doctor said as he dropped the bags on the floor.

"Just, passing the time." Sherlock said as he gently wiped his arm, avoiding John's eyes.

"I told you to call me if you felt like doing this again!"

"Do relax, it's fine."

"No, it's not!"

Sherlock felt his hand get pulled away from the three neat wounds. They were clean and straight, the bleeding was already slowing as they spoke.

"Look, they're not too deep, the bleeding is already slowing, I've disinfected the knife and it's going to be fine in a few moments."

"It's not the cuts which are the problem, Sherlock. It's the fact that you did it to yourself!"

"Oh."

John didn't answer as he looked over Sherlock's arm, touching and prodding.

"I'm going to patch these up and then you're going to explain exactly why you did this." John's hand was filled withheld anger.

Sherlock didn't say anything, as he just sank down onto the chair again.

* * *

><p>"Right. Talk."<p>

There was a bang when John sat down a cup of tea in front of Sherlock who was rolling down his sleeve again.

"It's my routine. It helps me with anxiety."

"It's certainly giving me some anxiety about leaving you alone."

"Everything is fine, John."

"Yes, everything is fucking great!"

Sherlock took a deep sip of the tea before letting out a deep sigh.

"These are the things you're supposed to talk about with Dr Rosenberg!" John said and looked like he had to keep himself from banging his fist on the table.

"I don't want to talk to that clown. He's not even a real doctor."

"He's there to help you."

"I don't need help."

"No, I can see that." John gestured against Sherlock's arm. "You have his number, just call him when you feel like doing something like this."

"I don't want to talk to him."

"Right."

John stood up, and took the knife from the table surface. He rinsed it off with his back to Sherlock.

"I'm going to hide these in a new place. If everything like this happens again..."

"What?"

"I just don't want to lose you."

"Why?"

"Stop it, Sherlock."

"I just don't see why this bothers you so much."

Sherlock flinched when John slammed his fist into the against the surface next to the sink.

"Because you're my best friend and without you... I'd be lost." He growled.

The detective looked a bit shocked. A simple 'oh' escaped him.

"I may not be gay, but I fucking love you, Sherlock. Not in a romantic way, but as a friend loves a friend. You mean so much to me. Please, just please... If not for you, then do it for me..."


	8. A morning

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm **

* * *

><p>Sherlock allowed a finger to trail over his scars. The feelings towards them were split. One part of him hated them, hated that they were there, on his pale, warm skin. Another part of him loved them, and he wasn't completely sure why.<p>

The marks were now covering almost every inch of his arms, both the left and the right one. The marks on the left arm were straighter and neater, the detective was right handed after all.

His finger reached the most recent ones, and he pressed against them, smiling as the pain shot through his arm. Now, they were a few days old and healing nicely, according to John. He hadn't been able to hurt himself again. John had set up more rules.

* * *

><p><em>"Sherlock?" John said as he stood in the doorway to the detective's room. It was now evening and John seemed to have calmed down from the fright he had received earlier. Sherlock's wounds were still pounding, but it wasn't as bad now. <em>

_"Hm?" Sherlock only said as a reply. _

_"I've locked the knifes, the pills and the lighters in a safe. I have the only key, and I'm going to keep it on my person at all time."_

_"Alright."_

_There was a pause. _

_"Really?" John's voice was surprised. _

_"There's no point in arguing."_

_"I'm glad you realise that."_

_"Can I sleep now?"_

_"Of course. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and by the way, I noticed three cigarettes and a light was missing. Give it back."_

_"In the top drawer. Under the purple boxers."_

_"If you ever mention to anyone that I went through your underwear, I'll kill you."_

* * *

><p>John and his bloody rules. It made him feel safe, made him feel like he could control something which was running completely amok. Just like the laws he so happily followed. They weren't really good for anything, but they made him feel safe, made him feel calm.<p>

"Sherlock? You okay? You've been in there for nearly 20 minutes!" John's voice came from the other side of the locked bathroom door, pulling the detective back into reality.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said as he got up and wrapped a towel around his waist.

"We're leaving in 10 minutes, hurry up!"

There was a reason to why he was hiding in the bathroom, of course there was. Today was his second therapy session. There were many words to describe how Sherlock was feeling about this, but 'excited' or 'full of anticipation' wasn't any he would use. It was more 'kill me now and get it over with'. But, he had promised.

Before John could bang the door again, Sherlock unlocked it and walked out, completely ignoring his flatmate.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, John. I'm going to get dressed and we're going to see Dr Rosenberg. I'm not going to complain and I'm not going to make a fuss."

"No, Sherlock, you're bleeding again."

At these words, Sherlock looked down only to see that his last self harm wounds had opened up again. The blood ran down his arm towards his hand.

"Oh." He just said before wiping it on the towel.

"Wait there, I'm going to get some band aids."

Why John felt the need to tell him to stay put, Sherlock didn't really understand. Where else would he go? He wasn't dressed. With a low groan, he sank down onto the bed and rested his arm in his lap to avoid getting any blood on the sheets.

It didn't take long before the good doctor came back and started tending to Sherlock's wounds, fussing over them and dressing to them. It was something fascinating about John doing what he did best. Dressing wounds, saving lives. Maybe this was how John felt when Sherlock deduced things. Fascination.

"John?" Sherlock said after a short while.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"In the kitchen, after I had... You know."

"What about it?" John's tone suddenly got a bit harder.

"Did you mean what you said? That you love me?"

"Of course I meant it. You're my best friend. You're important to me."

Sherlock had no idea what to say. He was actually someone's best friend. And it wasn't just somebody. This was John Watson, the only person in the world Sherlock could actually stand. The bravest, wisest and kindest man Sherlock had ever met. The bravest, wisest and kindest _person_ he had ever met. There was nothing he wouldn't do for John. He was very fond of his flatmate and friend.

"I think it goes without saying that you're my best friend too." Sherlock said after a few moments of silence. He wasn't looking at John this time, he was keeping his eyes fixed on the periodic table on the wall. "

"Coming from you, that is the best compliment I think anyone can ever receive." There was a smile in John's voice, he could hear it.

"There we go." The doctor said a short while later and leaned back. "Now, please keep these on for a while. We're back at square one with the healing bit."

There was a short nod from the detective before he stood up and walked over to his chest of drawers to take out something to wear.

"Sherlock, I can't take your fingers from you. I just have to beg you to not harm yourself any more."

No answer came from Sherlock this time.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was in his chair and John was in his, they were both holding a cup of tea. The news were on in the background, almost completely silent. It had been a long day, Sherlock felt completely and utterly drained.<p>

"You should get an early night, you look like you're about to topple over at any moment." John's voice came from somewhere far away.

"Just going to finish my tea." Sherlock heard himself answer.

It was a strange kind of exhaustion. It was mental exhaustion. Sherlock actually quite enjoyed it, it meant things were calm in his head for once. Just enjoying this, he sipped his tea. For the first time since John came home and found him on the sofa dressed in nothing but a t-shirt, Sherlock felt completely relaxed and calm.

Hopefully, this would last for at least a few days.


	9. The great art of focusing part 1

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Apparent suicide of a minor character. NOT SHERLOCK!**

* * *

><p>"You're probably stuck on 12 down, scaly toothless mammal. It's pangolin."<p>

"Sherlock, I do this because I want to do it by myself. It's no fun if you keep giving me the answers."

"You've been stuck on it for ages."

"Besides, that doesn't work. 21 across is fall, so-"

"It's flop, John."

There were a lot of grumbling from the doctor as he erased the letters he had written on the crossword in the newspaper. Sherlock drummed his fingers against his own flat stomach as he lay on the couch. God, he was _bored. _

"We need to find you a case before I strangle you." John said as he scribbled in the solutions Sherlock had suggested.

"It's not my fault that you can't even solve the Guardian's quick crossword."

"Still, could be good for you. To get out of the flat for a while."

As Sherlock opened his mouth to answer his friend, there sound of a doorbell rang through the flat. The two men looked up.

"Single ring."

"Client." Sherlock happily jumped out of the couch.

It was now almost a month since John came home that Monday and found Sherlock on the couch, for the first time seeing Sherlock's arms. The month had been spent by trying to get Sherlock adapted to the medication, and actually go to his three therapy sessions. And he was finally, according to both John and everyone else, getting better. Stable.

When the detective just migrated from the couch to his chair, John let out a low sigh.

"I'll go get them, shall I?" He said as he got up, soon walking down the stairs.

A few moments later, John came back with a young man. He couldn't be older than 18, a rugby player, rich parents, from Manchester and went to am epensive boarding school. And the tag on his sports trunk informed Sherlock that his name was Julian Ethans.

"Hello, Mr Ethans. What brings you here?"

The boy frowned and John raised an eyebrow. A groan escaped from Sherlock.

"It's not a hard deduction. The tag on your bag. You just flew from Manchester Airport to Heathrow. Julian Ethans. And I know that weapon. Harrow. Which means you're under 18, I'm guessing it's your last year, so you're 17. Either you're there due to a scholarship, but your expensive clothes suggests that your parents probably can pay the £11 500 term fee. But this isn't about your parents. You arrived in London almost three hours ago, which gives you enough time to go to your dorm, but since you haven't unpacked, something happened there. If it had been something to do with your family, you'd come here right away. So, do sit down and tell me why you're here."

* * *

><p>The sun shone through the windows and parents were filling the halls. Summer was on it's way. Almost seven weeks away from this place. It would be brilliant.<p>

Julian was walking towards his dorm, he'd just get his bag before he took a cab to Heathrow and then home. Home sweet home.

The teen fished out his key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

His roommate, Alex Whittermore, had probably already left. Julian hadn't seen him all day.

Whistling, Julian stepped into the room. But what he saw in there made him almost back out again.

There was a toppled over chair in the middle of the room, and above it was Alex's body hanging with a belt around his neck, tied to the lamp.

* * *

><p>"So, your roommate committed suicide about six weeks ago. But you wouldn't come to me for that, so what happened today?" Sherlock interfered.<p>

* * *

><p>Julian stepped out into the rain outside Heathrow, and waved for a cab. During the short flight, he had fallen asleep and his neck was now aching.<p>

And he couldn't say that he was excited about being back. His grades were useless, and he hated that bloody school. especially after Alex...

Only a year left now and then he'd... Do something with his life.

"Harrow School, please." The teen mumbled as he stepped into the cab.

The black cab rolled through the streets of the capital. With a deep sigh, Julian leaned against the cab window.

* * *

><p>"I don't care about your cab journey." Sherlock interfered and his fingers drummed against the seat of the chair. "What happened when you arrived at the dorm?"<p>

"Right, sorry." Julian mumbled before he started again.

* * *

><p>Once again Julian stood there, outside the door. Last time he had opened that door, he had found his friend hanging from the lamp. After swallowing, he opened the door.<p>

This time there were no body, but there was nothing else ether. Alex's mess wasn't there. He hadn't littered the whole room with his dirty underwear, or papers.

But, there was something there which didn't belong to Julian and his new roommate hadn't appeared yet. It was an envelope, containing a short note and a memory stick.

* * *

><p>Sherlock leaned forward.<p>

"What did it say?"

Without answering, Julian opened up his bag and pulled out an envelope.

"It's Alex's handwriting." The teen mumbled as he handed it to the detective.

It was addressed to Julian and Sherlock stroke over it. The name was written with a simple ballpoint pen by a young man under stress. And inside, there was a simple paper, the sort you'd find in a cheap notebook. It simply said 'Sherlock Holmes'. Inside, there was a memory stick as well.

Sherlock could see John try to catch a glimpse of the note out of the corner of his eyes. Without saying anything, Sherlock just handed it over to John.

"Let's have a look and then I'll decide what if I'll take the case or not."

Taking that as his cue, John opened up his laptop and plugged in the memory stick. Sherlock leaned over his friend and looked through the files. Mostly pictures and school work it seemed like. Except for one file.

_I've made a huge fucking mistake, Julian. I'm sorry. They're coming and I probably won't survive this. They're going to make it look like a suicide, I know their methods. Please don't believe it. I can only trust you. Contact Sherlock Holmes. He's the best of the best. _

_I am sorry_

_Watch your back_

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face once he had finished reading.

"I'll take the case."


	10. The great art of focusing part 2

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Apparent suicide of a minor character. NOT SHERLOCK!**

**I have no idea how boarding schools or the UK school system works, so there will be some mistakes. **

* * *

><p>Sherlock twisted the memory stick in his long, slender fingers as John was looking through the copied files, looking for any other mentioned of <em>Them. <em>Julian, who still sat opposite the detective had been given a cup of tea and he was staring into it.

"Who do you think They are?" Sherlock asked.

The boy looked up, but he wasn't really there, he looked like he was miles away.

"I have no idea." He answered after a while. "He never mentioned anything about money issues, drugs, crazy girlfriends or anything like that."

"How did he get into Harrow? Scholarship or rich parents?"

"Scholarship."

"For?"

"Arts. He is... Was a painter."

"Grades?"

"He was barely passing at all."

There was a short nod from the detective and he turned to look at his flatmate.

"Anything?"

John looked over, still not sure if he was being addressed or if Sherlock was still talking to the teen. He looked up at the detective before shaking his head.

"Nothing, but these essays... I can see why he's not passing. Some of them are barely understandable."

With a small huff, Sherlock stapled his hands under his chin, and stared into the ceiling. For how long he sat like this, he didn't know. The thoughts were spinning widely and he did his best to put them up on his mental board, drawing strings in between what he already knew, liking them together.

"We need to see your room and we need to talk to the teachers." Sherlock said as he looked down at the chair again.

Apparently, not much time had passed. Julian was still in it, and John was still by his computer. There was a bit less tea in the teen's mug, but that was the only thing which had changed in the room.

* * *

><p>The halls, the smells, the sounds. Harrow had changed rather less than Sherlock over the last 10+ years. But, this time, he wasn't there dressed in that blue blazer and that ugly hat.<p>

"Sherlock?" John's voice came from far away.

"Hm?" Sherlock looked around.

"You never told me you went to Harrow."

"Well, you never asked. But, how did you know?"

John pointed towards the glass cabinet they were by. In there, Sherlock's 18 year old self was staring down at him. There was a small smile on his face and his eyes were lit in different way.

"I thought they had gotten rid of it." Sherlock said as he looked down at the small inscription.

_For his astonishing grades and performance in Chemistry both in class and in competitions, we award Mr. Sherlock Holmes with the prestigious Harrow Department Award and a permanent place in Harrow Hall of Fame*_

"Wow. That's pretty impressive." John pointed out as he read the inscription.

"You went here?" Julian asked with a surprised tone in his voice.

"Yes, I was in 'the Grove'. It's a boarding house." He explained to John.

"I'm in the Knoll."

"Don't really care. John, you need to go and talk to the House master, I need to see the room."

* * *

><p>"What did you find?" Sherlock asked as the waiter placed their coffee in front of them.<p>

For three hours, they had been walking around the school, talking to Alex's teachers, and his friends.

"Not much. He wasn't doing very well, he barely passed his subjects. Towards the end of last year, he was beginning to lose control completely. His texts were barely understandable."

Sherlock poured some sugar into his coffee and stirred, before revealing what he had found.

"Nothing in the room suggested any kind of struggle. None of his friends knew anything about Them, but they had heard about him talk about it. Towards the end he rarely stopped talking about Them. Did you speak with the school's nurse?"

"Yeah. Apparently he had some struggles with depression, enough to be medicated for. It's pointing more and more towards someone just being broken down by stress. Couldn't face another year failing..."

"But why write that note if he committed suicide? Why not just write a goodbye note? Why ask his roommate to contact a detective?"

"You're the genius." John said with a low voice as he took a bite of the sandwich he had ordered. "And you should eat something."

With a sigh, Sherlock merely ignored John's statement about food.

"We don't have a body, since he was buried several weeks ago, but I want to look into the police report. Even if they're incompetent, it's better than nothing. If there are any signs of a struggle on the body, this may not be a common troubled teenage boy."

"You were diagnosed when you went there, right?"

Sherlock frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, the boys start when they're 13, so you must have been diagnosed while you still went there."

"I don't see how that's important."

"No, it's not. I'm sorry, just thinking." John sighed.

"Please leave me out of this. We need to talk to Lestrade. Come on." Sherlock got up, leaving his untouched coffee on the table.

"But I haven't finished my sandwich!"

* * *

><p>"Alex Whittermore? Yeah, I remember him. Kid committed suicide." Lestrade said as he leaned forward, looking at John and Sherlock who were now sitting opposite him. "Why do you need to see the report?"<p>

"Because his roommate contacted me, asked me to look into it."

"That's not really a reason for me to pull up a month old file."

Before the DI could ask any more questions, Sherlock pulled out the printed note and handed it to the older man. After reading it, Lestrade looked up again.

"Anything else you need me to do?"

"Yes, I want you to pull out all the contact information you can on him. And medical records."

"Give me a moment, I'll be right back with it."

* * *

><p>The files lay on the table in front of Sherlock and he had a small smile on his face. It all made sense now. Of course, it had been so obvious. Them, the depression, the unreadable texts. He had been so slow. Of course!<p>

"What are you smiling about?" John asked as he sank down by the table.

There was a small chuckle from the detective before he opened his mouth, to reveal his findings.

* * *

><p>*<em>Harrow Department Award <em>and __Harrow Hall of Fame __are completely made up, they don't exist


	11. The great art of focusing part 3

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Suicide of a minor character. Self harm and suicidal intent.**

* * *

><p>"It was suicide." Sherlock explained as he closed his laptop.<p>

"But?" John asked as he reached for the documents before Sherlock snatched them up.

"But?"

"You wouldn't be smiling if it turned out the be suicide. And what about the note?"

"Alex was undergoing an investigation for paranoid schizophrenia. They were nothing more than hallucinations. It also explains why he was failing in school. It explains all of it. No one was threatening him, except his own mind. Suicide is normal among schizophrenics. Come on, we have to talk to Julian."

* * *

><p>"So, it was just suicide?" Julian asked as he handed John a small stack of money.<p>

Sherlock was standing by the award cabinet again, looking at his own face. The way his eyes lit up. That picture had to have been taken a few months after he was put on medication for the first time, when he thought he would actually be happy again. Before the drugs, the men and the self harm. _What happened to me_? He thought to himself.

What was this? Sentiment? Nostalgia? It felt like something was twisting his intestines and he felt slightly sick. He didn't want to be here any more. He didn't want to remember.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?" John's voice broke into his thoughts and cut them short. Normally, he'd be cross, but this time his mind needed to be interrupted.

"Never been better. Got the money?" Sherlock turned away from his younger, less troubled self and smiled at John. "Then, let's go."

* * *

><p>Once again, the rain was pouring down and Sherlock pulled his collar up to protect himself from it. As soon as they reached the road, he put out his arm, waving for a cab. Fairly quickly one came to a halt. Thankful, the two men got in, relieved to be out of the rain. Well in there, Sherlock felt John's hand touch his own.<p>

"Are you alright?" The doctor asked with a soft voice.

"Of course I am." Sherlock said, without looking at John.

"You don't have to be okay. I know this case had to be hard for you. Suicide, Harrow..."

Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled a hand through his hair.

"I just want you to tell me if it has triggered something. I'm here to help you." John finished.

"I'm aware."

"So, talk to me. I saw how you looked at that picture. Tell me what's going on in your head."

"That would take ages to go through."

There was a deep sigh from Sherlock as he tilted his head back, leaning against the headrest. He took a deep breath before talking again.

"I keep wondering what happened to me. Where the boy who actually had hope went, the boy who thought that he could actually feel alright again. I keep wondering how on earth I thought it was a good idea to start self medicating with cocaine, morphine and cigarettes. All the men I thought could give me _something_. Happiness, comfort, something... This case was just a bit... Too close for my own taste. Someone finds his roommate after a suicide attempt. Difference is, I could be brought back."

There was a small sniffle from John, and Sherlock looked over with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm here." The doctor said and gave Sherlock's hand a soft squeeze before releasing it almost immediately. "I'm not letting it happen again, alright?"

* * *

><p>He was weak, and it frightened him. Sherlock lay on his bed, staring into the ceiling. It was dark outside his windows and the rain was smattering. Why did this stupid case affect him so much? It was silly, it wasn't about him. Besides, it was almost 20 years ago. It should not bother him.<p>

But now, his arms longed for pain and his body needed the endorphins.

"Fuck."

Sherlock pressed his hand against his eyes and small explosions of light appeared behind his eyelids.

"Pull yourself together." He growled, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Soon, the taste of blood filled his mouth. There was no escaping his disorder. It would always be there, it would always be in his way. Nothing would ever be alright. The boy with hope became a man of doubt. And this man barely had doubt any more. He was beginning to give up.

"No, give it a few more days. It will take a while for the medication to really take effect." He whispered.

There was the longing to forget, to disappear into the shadows again. Drugs. But it was merely a temporary fix. When he got out of it, everything would be even worse than before. Those years of drug abuse, they were still plaguing him.

"Sherlock, I was thinking takeaway for dinner. What do-." John said as he creaked the door open, but cut himself short when he saw the state the detective was in.

"Hey... I'm here, you're alright."

The mattress dipped a bit as John sat down and soon his hands were on Sherlock's shoulders, squeezing them lightly.

"It was a bad idea to take this case." Sherlock whispered.

There was no point in keeping up appearance for John. His best friend was the only one who could keep him together and the only one who knew the whole story. There was no point in lying to him, in playing like he was feeling better than he really was.

"I know, I realised. Why don't we stay in here tonight? I'll bring my laptop, we'll watch a movie. I'll order some pizza, we'll have some beers. Everything will be fine."

After sighing deeply, Sherlock removed his hands from his own face and looked up at his friend. Worry was filling the doctor's eyes.

"Just don't leave me." He begged.

"I wouldn't dream of it." John gave Sherlock's stomach a small pat. "I'll be back in just a moment."

* * *

><p><strong>I'm thinking about ending this fic soon, but technically, it could go on forever. I'd like to know what you think. Continue or not? It's all up to you, my lovely readers. <strong>


	12. A different kind of distraction

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: None**

**THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEX. NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC, BUT STILL.**

* * *

><p>The younger, muscular man groaned in Sherlock's ear before stopping his movements. His warm, deep breaths tickled Sherlock's neck and moved his curls. After a few seconds, he gave Sherlock's neck a small kiss and rolled off.<p>

"Do you want me to stay?" He asked once both their breathing had returned to normal. His voice was deep and rather attractive.

Now that he had served his purpose, Sherlock wasn't interested in the man any more. He wasn't even sure what his name was. So, the detective just shook his head as he rolled onto his back, staring into the ceiling.

"Alright. You have my number if you need me again."

"I won't, don't expect it." Sherlock closed his eyes and wrapped the duvet around his own sweaty body.

"Too bad, you're quite good. Best orgasm in years."

"I'm not interested in sexual partners. I'm all for one night stands. Now _leave._"

"Alright, alright. Sheez." Before he left he turned back to smile at Sherlock. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

It was the third man this week Sherlock had found on a gay cruising application. He was slipping into the habits of old, but this was a rather harmless one. Orgasms lowered the risk of prostate cancer, research had found. So this was simply an attempt to stay healthy. But of course this was a lie. It was a desperate attempt for a distraction.

With a low sigh, Sherlock pulled the duvet tighter around his body and allowed himself to drift off into a light sleep.

* * *

><p>"A brunet this time." John's voice came from the living room as Sherlock walked into the kitchen, dressed in nothing but a robe.<p>

"Hm?" The detective raised an eyebrow as he put on the kettle.

"This time the guy was a brunet. Tuesday, it was a ginger."

"So?"

"Three guys in one week. That's rather impressive. Where do you find them all?"

"Grindr."

"And what's that?"

"Gay cruising app."

"Oh."

Sherlock poured the water into two cups, along with tea bags and two teaspoons of sugar in his own cup. It had been a relief that John accepted the fact that he's gay, but from the tone in his friend's voice, Sherlock suspected that John wasn't too fond of all the men Sherlock spent the nights with.

After making sure that the tea was as perfect as it had to be, Sherlock walked back out into the living room and handed John his cup.

"As your doctor... Are you being safe?" John asked before he took a gentle sip of the warm beverage.

"Of course. Condoms and all that jazz." Sherlock muttered as he sank down into his chair.

"And have you gotten tested lately?"

"Tested?"

"For STIs. Have you gotten tested for HIV? I mean, since you last used."

For some reason, this made rage flare up in Sherlock's chest. Did John really think he was stupid enough to slam dirty and used needles into his arms or have sex with strangers without the proper protection? There was a low growl from him as he turned and looked at John with fire in his eyes.

"Is that what you think of me? That I'm stupid enough to pick used needles of the street and jam them into my arms? Or that I pick up guys and let them take me from behind without any protection?" His voice was a lot harder than he had intended for it to be, but he didn't care.

"There's no need to get mad at me." John's voice was calm and collected. "I'm just looking after you."

"You're like a fucking mother hen."

"There's no need to curse at me."

Leaving his cup of untouched tea on the table next to his chair, Sherlock sprung up and stormed into his room, closing his door with a slam.

Was that really what John thought about him? That he was careless and stupid? That he valued orgasms and highs more than safety? That he was just like everyone else? With the anger boiling over, Sherlock slammed his fist into the wall with a wordless shout. The pain it caused was more than welcomed. His heart was beating fast in his chest.

But when he had exploded, Sherlock felt his chest be filled with shame. He wasn't a violent man. Where did this anger and the sudden urge to hurt something from? Thankfully, the wall seemed to be fine, but his hand was pounding slightly.

With a low groan, Sherlock laid down on the bed. There was nothing pleasant about this whatsoever. He didn't like the feeling of losing control. It was actually quite terrifying. I need of a distraction, he picked up his phone, opening the app. There were already several requests to chat.

* * *

><p>This time, he was tall, blond, Swedish and young. An exchange student. The sex was ferocious, angry and bloody brilliant. It was still nothing more than a distraction. but it was a good distraction. All the left over energy from the minor argument with John was now released.<p>

It took a while for the detective to gather himself and leave the bedroom. He would take a long, hot shower.

"How old was he?" John was leaning against the wall just outside Sherlock's room. Luckily, the detective had enough sense to put on a pair of boxers.

"I don't see how that matters." Sherlock said as he folded his arms over his chest.

"Sherlock, he was barely 18, if even that. How old was he? For your sake, I hope he's over 17."

"He was 20." Sherlock grumbled as he moved past John and into the bathroom. Before John could answer, he locked the door behind him. Why he was mad at John, he didn't know. It was just an unexplainable rage building inside of him.

Fuck, he hated this disorder.


	13. Falling down

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: Drug use**

* * *

><p>There was no help for Sherlock, none at all. The men weren't helping, his medication had only made him worse. The frustration was reaching a boiling point. There was no sleep, no peace. His thoughts were constantly racing, he couldn't hold a thought for more than a few moments before it was swept along with the others. His head was a raging storm.<p>

That was why he now stood out in the bitter November rain. It was wetting his curls, causing them to lay flat against his head. His upturned collar didn't stop any of the rain from seeping in and rolling down his skin, causing him to shiver intensely. But he was here for a reason, he was here for the only thing which helped.

Cocaine. The substance of gods. The warm shower after a long day of work. The food for the starving and the water for the thirsting. It was warmth for the cold. It was the embrace of a loved one. It was simply brilliant.

Sherlock's old dealer had been more than happy to meet again, even after all these years. He knew that Sherlock would always come back. Sherlock knew that he would always come back. There is no such thing as a recovered addict, only constantly recovering. At least not for Sherlock.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock pocketed the substance which joined the needles he had gotten earlier. Everything was there now. John would be out for hours, since it was a normal work day. Thinking of John reminded him that he should probably get back before his flatmate woke up to leave for work.

* * *

><p>The door to the flat clicked softly when John closed it and Sherlock stood by the window in the lounge for a few moments, just making sure that John had actually left. After waiting several minutes and after convincing himself that John had now actually left for work, Sherlock locked the main door.<p>

Before he had even made it to his room, Sherlock had already rolled up his sleeves. He was ready. After his little shopping trip, he had gotten back to the flat at three in the morning. The detective had been forced to use all of his willpower to not shoot up right there and then. No, he would have to wait until John left. That would give him several hours of peace.

Humming a song under his breath, Sherlock placed some of the white powder on the spoon which he was holding in his left hand. After the amount of powder was satisfactory, he grabbed his lighter and held it under the spoon. The small flame was warming the spoon and melting the substance into a clear liquid.

Once it all was melted, Sherlock grabbed a syringe and filled it. Tossing the spoon to the side, he placed the needle against the pale skin on his left arm and gently pushed it in. He had done this so many times that he knew exactly what to do. The high came almost instantly and he let out a revealed groan as he sank down against his pillows.

Relief.

* * *

><p>Halfway to the clinic, John realised that he had forgotten his ID, which was required to actually get into the clinic. With a low sigh, he got of his current tube and stepped on one which would take him back home. It would also give him the opportunity to make sure that Sherlock had taken his medication.<p>

Leaving Sherlock alone had been a chore before, but now... It was nearly impossible. John was constantly worried. And the whole thing with all the men... It freaked him out. He was worried that one of them would hurt his best friend. Or that Sherlock wasn't being careful and actually contracted something.

Constantly, John had to remind himself that Sherlock was a grown man who had somehow managed to survive before the two of them met. There was cause for worry, of course, but maybe not as much.

Stuck in his thoughts, John soon opened the door to 221B. Or, tried to open the door to 221B. It was locked. Strange. Sherlock never locked the door. Closed doors weren't his thing. If he could, he'd probably remove every door in the flat.

With his brow furrowed, John unlocked the door. Something wasn't right. Everything felt off. Even though he didn't have Sherlock's deduction skills, he could sense something was off.

"Sherlock?" He called out as he stepped into the flat.

It looked the same as it had done when he left, which was strangely tidy for being 221B. Normally, John would clean while Sherlock was asleep, Sherlock would wake up and two seconds later, the whole place would be a mess once more.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" No answer. John's heart started beating fast in his chest.

The detective had been up when he left, he had seen him standing by the window, drinking tea. Without calling out again, John walked up to the bathroom and gently tried the door. It was unlocked and Sherlock wasn't in there. So, he was in his room, then. After a few fast steps, John walked into Sherlock's room and his heart sank to the bottom of his stomach.

Sherlock was sprawled out on the bed. His sleeves were rolled up and in the left one, there was an empty needle. He was breathing, that much was clear.

"Why, Sherlock?" John whispered as he approached the bed and gently pressed a few fingers against Sherlock's neck, checking his pulse. It was a bit fast, but that was to be expected.

"How much have you taken?" Even though he wasn't expecting an answer, he still had to ask.

"Dunno..." Sherlock slurred and John nearly got a heart attack. He hadn't expected an answer.

That slurred word broke the doctor's heart. His normally so well-spoken flatmate was not reduced to this. A single word, a slang word at that as well, which was barely understandable.

"Do I need to take you to the hospital?" Doing his best to push away the anger, disappointment and worry, John pulled out the needle and placed it on the bedside table.

"No." Sherlock breathed, his eyes half closed.

"Alright." John whispered before he grabbed a blanket and draped it over the detective. He'd have to call Sarah and say that he couldn't come into work today after all.


	14. Brotherly love

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: **

* * *

><p>The morning after Sherlock's little relapse, there was one more person than there usually was in 221B. Per usual, Sherlock was on the couch, John was in his chair, but there was a third man in Sherlock's chair. Mycroft Holmes had graced them with his presence. The older Holmes brother had his arms crossed over his chest, his umbrella was resting against the chair. John had the same position and they were both looking at Sherlock with a rather cross look on their faces.<p>

The detective himself was clutching a cup of tea and staring at his knees, avoiding the eyes of his brother and his best friend. When he had sobered up from his hit, he had been encountered with a very disappointed and very angry John. The doctor had told him that he was calling Mycroft and then left Sherlock in his room, after confiscating everything.

"You have been clean for so long, Sherlock..." John was the first one who broke the silence. His voice was filled with disappointment, anger and... Was it sadness?

There was no reply from Sherlock, he simply stared into his tea and let out a quiet sigh. This whole situation was strangely familiar. All in all, he had now relapsed four times. Every time, Mycroft had been watching him with that disappointed, annoyed look on his face as he scolded him for his substance abuse.

"I'm glad to see you're getting treated for your disorder, but I would prefer it if you stayed with the legal drugs." Mycroft said with a cold, hard voice.

Once again, Sherlock was completely quiet. If it had just been John and himself there, Sherlock maybe would have talked. But, he wasn't too interested in opening up to his brother. The Holmes brothers never talked in that way. Never had they talked about feelings. And, Sherlock wasn't interested in starting now.

"Do save us some time. Where have you hidden it?" Mycroft spoke again, voice a bit louder this time.

"I don't have any. I bought one dose, that's it. It's a one time thing." Sherlock said before he took a small sip of the tea. It was warm and calming.

Both Mycroft and John let out a snorting sound.

"We're not stupid." Mycroft said with an almost hurt tone in his voice. "Of course there's more."

"There isn't any more!" Sherlock growled and slammed the cup into the table. He was disappointed in himself, he was angry, he was... He was confused.

"Talk to us, Sherlock. Why?" John asked as Mycroft leaned back and looked over his brother.

The brunet bit his jaws together and ruffled his hair. It had been to escape, of course it had. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to feel. He just wanted to disappear, to not feel.

"I don't have time for your teenage-like moping. Where should we be looking and how long will it be until you make another attempt to take your life?"

Both John and Sherlock looked at Mycroft with raised eyebrows. Sherlock let out a tiny huff before looking back into his cup of tea. John, on the other hand, seemed to take this quite badly.

"Maybe you should just go, Mycroft. That is not going to help. Do you know anything about bipolar disorder? Do you know anything about depression? What Sherlock needs right now if for us to be supportive. He does not need to be ridiculed and made feel like he's just wasting our time."

Mycroft wasn't used to people standing up to him, except for Sherlock, but he always expected that. He was used to people following his every lead. So, when John snapped at him, he looked rather shocked. After opening and closing his mouth a few times, like a fish on dry land, Mycroft just stood up.

"Have fun fixing this." He gestured towards Sherlock. "Since I'm apparently of no use here, I am going to take my leave."

* * *

><p>After Mycroft had left, Sherlock stayed on the couch. He was staring into the opposite wall, with the thoughts spinning in his mind. None of the Holmes boys were too caring, but this was a new low, even for Mycroft. Sherlock had thought that he was something more to his bother than just trouble. But apparently, he wasn't.<p>

"Sherlock..." John sat down next to him and placed a hand on the detective's shoulder. "You've just been sitting there all day. Please talk to me. Talk to me about _something_."

All day? What did John mean with all day? Mycroft had just left... Sherlock looked around the flat and realised that the flat was indeed dark. It had happened again. Once again, he had gotten lost in his mind palace.

"I promise there is no more. I just got one dose." Sherlock muttered. There was a relieved look on John's face when Sherlock answered.

"I know, I checked." The doctor an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "But it was fucking stupid. You're going to have a lot of trouble keeping yourself from slipping back into abuse. I'll help, of course, but you'll have to do your part."

"I am sorry."

"Yes, you better be. You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"You weren't supposed to know."

"And, I'm sorry for calling Mycroft. I didn't know he'd be like that. I'm rather disappointed in him. I thought he'd be a bit more... Caring." John said with a shrug and withdrew his arm.

"Not your fault." Sherlock sighed deeply and placed his head in his hands. "I'm a fucking mess, John. I have no control over anything any more. My thoughts are out of control and so are my emotions. It's like a storm."

"You _have _to talk to me about things like this, Sherlock. Before you resort to sex with countless of men and drugs. I want to help and I'm able to help, but not unless you let me. You need to talk to me."

"I need help."

"That much is obvious, yes. Don't worry. We'll fix you."


	15. A letter

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: ANGST! Mentions of suicide, suicidal intentions**

* * *

><p><em>John<em>

_When we met, I was such a lonely, miserable and pathetic man. I was just out of rehabilitation for my drug abuse. I was a mess. My mood was out of control. As you can recall I barely ate during the first months that we knew each other. I rarely slept, except for a few days when I stayed in bed for more than 20 hours. _

_Why am I telling you this? You are not an idiot. I will agree with the fact that you aren't the most intelligent of people, but you definitely are brighter than most of the idiots I spend my time with. Anyway, what I was trying to say is that you most likely remember._

_What you also likely remember is how kind you always were. Even after just knowing me for a few days and hearing everyone's opinion on me, you started leaving me tea in the morning. There was always left over food for me when you cooked. You looked after me, even though I never did the shopping, I never cleaned and I never did the laundry. I never gave you anything in return, yet you made sure I was as comfortable and happy as possible._

_You've never called me a freak, not even when I upset you, not even when I explained to you that the people I was trying to save meant absolutely nothing to me. That it was just the kick of the case I was after. You've never doubted me, you've always been there. You're my only friend. My best friend. _

_You are the bravest, kindest and wisest man I've ever had the good fortune of knowing. I am not capable of love, or so I thought until I met you. I love you. Not as in I want to marry you or spend the nights with you, but I love you as a friend loves a friend. I'd take a bullet for you. I'd kill for you._

_These years that I've spent living with you, save for the last few months, have been the best years of my life. I realised that I had never been happy before. I convinced myself that I was happy more time than I'm willing to admit. I thought I was happy as a raging drug addict, but I was high. As it turns out, those two are completely different._

_Hopefully, you knew this already. Hopefully this doesn't come as a shock to you. If it does, I do apologise. I am not one for showing emotions. I just want you to know that I think very highly of you. _

_Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the disorder which has plagued me for so many years, which also happens to be the reason to why I'm writing this. _

_I can't escape my demons. The demons of the depression are sitting on my shoulders, weighing me down. They shackle me to my bed, keeping me from getting up. They suffocate me. The angels of mania rarely come to my rescue. I hate this, John. _

_I'm never going to be fine. My medicine is making me slow, dull, boring. I'm going to be relying on them for the rest of my life. I hate to admit this, but I can't do it any more. My brain is trying to kill me and I can't fight it any more. There's only so much you can dull with medicine._

_When you read this, I will have ended my life. As you probably have noticed, I did not do it at the flat. I didn't want to risk either you or Mrs Hudson finding me. I'm sorry, John. I truly am. I've always been a selfish man. The sole reason why I haven't done it yet is because of you. You've managed to give me at least a ray of hope._

_I don't have any hope left now. Someone once said that hope is the last thing you lose. I've lost my hope. I lost my hope quite some time ago. I am sorry for not feeling better. I know how much you tried to get me to feel better. I know how much work you put into this and I am sorry for throwing it away. I don't mean to feel this way. If there was anyway I could change it, I would. _

_I'm leaving all of my belongings to you. Do what you want with them. I wish to be buried with my violin, though. It's my most priced possession. Cremate me, bury me... I don't really care. I'm going to be dead anyway._

_I'm sorry. _

_Yours_

_Sherlock Holmes_

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><p>Sherlock read and reread his short letter several times. It was considerably longer than the others. The tall detective was on his bed, legs folded beneath him. In his right hand there was a fountain pen and scattered on the bed around him were drafts of the letter.<p>

As it turned out, it was harder to write a goodbye letter to your one and only friend than Sherlock had imagined. The whole day, he had been locked in his room, writing. Mycroft's had been rather easy to write. It was mostly filled with legal details, specifying everything. It also contained the location of where his body could be found. It was a very emotionless letter.

The one to John had been more difficult to write. It had taken him several attempts and he had almost used up an entire notepad. But now, he had something he was moderately pleased with. Carefully, to not harm the paper, he tore it from the spine of the notepad and folded it in half.

After putting it in the white envelope marked _Dr John Watson_, the detective got up from the bed. He sealed the envelope, grabbed the one to Mycroft and walked over to his drawer. Carefully, he hid the two letters where he knew they wouldn't be found. He'd take them out when he left to go and do it.

Now, he'd just have to wait for the right time.


	16. Failure

**Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.**

**Trigger warnings for this chapter: SUICIDE ATTEMPT.**

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><p>That morning, Sherlock didn't bother with his medication. What was the point? He was going to be out anyway when John woke up and he wasn't returning. The sun hadn't risen as Sherlock calmly prepared a cup of tea. Even though the last few days had been horrible, Sherlock felt strangely calm. It would be over soon enough. Everything was going to be fine. For everyone.<p>

He had been biding his time, smiling politely at everyone during his birthday, faked excitement over the gifts he had received and praised Mrs Hudson for her excellent baking skill. Everyday, he had been taking his medication, spoken to John about how he was feeling. Most of it had been a lie, though. And today was the day. With the cup in one hand, Sherlock walked up to the window. He stroke a hand over his violin as he took a deep sip of the warm liquid.

After drinking his tea, Sherlock took a long, warm shower. He dressed in his usual fashion, with his favourite shirt, the purple one. As he reached into his sock drawer, his hand brushed against the letters. His heart rate picked up a bit. Today was the day.

Sherlock chose a pair of black socks for that day. Details which were normally deleted right away, like the colour of his own underwear or socks, seemed to burn into his mind. He knew exactly how many minutes he had spent in the shower and the temperature of the water. It was permanently burnt into his hard drive.

With steady hands, Sherlock held the envelopes. He would drop off Mycroft's on his way to the spot he had chosen for the deed. A quiet, abandoned building site. There wasn't a chance that someone else would find him. It was all planned down to the last detail. Sherlock tended to do that. He planned everything. John's envelope was placed on the table in such a way that Sherlock was sure John would see it.

The tall detective threw what in his mind would be his last ever look on 221B. It was loving, and terribly sad. But, there was no one around to see it. John wouldn't be up for a few more hours. With gentle, and still steady hands, Sherlock put on his scarf and coat.

"Good bye." He said, to whoever or whatever was listening.

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><p>The sun was rising as Sherlock heated up the powder, melting it into a clear substance. Even someone who wasn't used to drugs would clearly see it was a way too large dose. He had been walking through London, which was always best during the early hours of the morning, when the streets were rather empty. At least according to Sherlock. It wasn't raining today, he noted as he filled a syringe.<p>

After he left Baker Street, he had taken a taxi to Mycroft's and placed the letter in his bother's letter box. It was a very short letter, only containing a few words.

_Brother dear, I will not bother you any more. Tell Mum and Dad I'm sorry._

And, of course, the address to his current whereabouts. After dropping of the envelope he had walked. Just taking it all in one last time.

As the detective pushed the needle into his arm, his thoughts wandered to John. His best friend. The only one who had kept him from doing this much, much sooner. But, John must have suspected something. As the substance disappeared into him, his thoughts left John and turned to the relief he was sure would soon arrive.

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><p>What Sherlock didn't know, was that an ambulance had already left Bart's and was speeding through the empty streets of the UK*s capitol when he injected his fatal dose of cocaine. Mycroft had risen early and when he saw the letter, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Despite what everyone seemed to think, he was very fond of his little brother. The little pirate. Mycroft had dialled 999 faster than he thought was possible.<p>

The ambulance arrived at the building site to find the detective curled up in a corner at around the same time as John entered the kitchen. Something felt off, just like it had done that day Sherlock shot up for the first time in years. The letter, neatly addressed to him with his flatmate's handwriting confirmed his suspicions. With shaking hands, he opened the letter and suspected that he might be sick as he read through it.

No.

John was pulled back into reality by the sharp sound of his phone. Mycroft. It was Mycroft. He must know something.

"Mycroft..." The doctor breathed, only to get a run-down of the current situation. Overdose, Bart's, revival, unstable. His legs felt weak and he barely heard Mycroft tell him that he was sending a car.

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><p>Room 5 in Bart's ICU was filled with the low beeping of the heart monitor. There were three men in the room, two in chairs and one was in the hospital bed. Sherlock was deadly pale, his hair stood on end and all kind of machines were hooked up to him, making sure he was still breathing. John had placed an elbow on the armrest and leaned his cheek into his hand. Mycroft was tapping the toe of his shoe against the tip of the umbrella.<p>

There was a twitch in the youngest man's face. John and Mycroft flinched, both of them leaning towards the bed. None of them spoke. They hadn't said anything to each other since the phone call. What was there to say?

"I'm alive." Sherlock's voice was so thin, and his eyes weren't even open yet.

"Don't speak, you idiot." John said as he grabbed Sherlock's hand, holding it gently.

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><p><strong>I'm really sorry about this chapter. Both because of how late it was and because of how horrible it is. I hope you can forgive me, my beautiful readers. <strong>


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